


Fair Exchange

by nostalgia



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Epic Bromance, F/M, Gen, Het Bromance, Jossed, Literal Satan, Magic Realism, Necromancy, a lot jossed in fact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:19:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgia/pseuds/nostalgia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock makes a deal with the Devil. Literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fair Exchange

He holds the bow against the strings of the violin. Music is the simplest way to summon the creature he requires. At a certain time on a certain night, with the right frame of mind, anything is possible.

He's tried this before but the devil will never come when one is at one's lowest point. This time his veins are clean and his mind is unclouded. This time he will make his bargain. 

Surely by now he has something to offer in exchange.

 

The Devil is a middle-aged man in a black suit. There is amusement in his eyes and he plays with his cuffs as though bored. “Raising the dead,” he says, “is expensive.”

“I'll pay,” says Sherlock.

The Devil has to ask. “Are you quite sure?”

“It's only my soul,” he says in reply.

“Your soul? I merely have to wait for _that_.”

“Whatever I have,” Sherlock insists, “is yours. Nothing I have means anything to me. Nothing is precious.”

Satan smiles. 

 

Within an hour there is a knock at the door. He doesn't rush to answer it, in case some trick is involved. He turns the key in the lock and takes a breath.

Irene Adler stands on the doorstep, smiling in the cold night air.

 

He is, of course, overjoyed. Death is no longer his enemy, it has become a tame lion trained to do tricks. He realises he's been saving up things to tell her even when she wasn't coming home.

There is only the slightest taste of ashes in her kiss.

 

It takes him a full day to notice, but eventually the lack of irritation trickles through to his awareness.

“No annoying texts,” he says, pulling on his shoes to head for the police station. “Something must have happened.”

Irene sits calmly on the bed. “I thought you knew,” she says.

He looks up quickly. “Knew what?”

“That he always takes something of value.”

 

He looks anyway, helps Gregson comb the house for evidence. 

“You didn't have an argument?”

“Nothing like that,” he says, giving his statement at the police station. He gives all the information he can and agrees perhaps to readily that he is too close to the case to be of any further assistance.

He's the obvious suspect, but they won't find anything to connect him to Watson's disappearance. How could they? Not for him the dubious redemption of prison, all he has to cling to is his own guilt.

 

But otherwise things are _perfect_. Irene tells him that she loves him and he nods and says “Of course.” He tries not to do the things that annoyed her, and she doesn't seem to mind when he does.

He tells himself that everything balances out, but the hole in the world is frayed around the edges and tugs at the threads of his heart. He scratches his chest absently, looks at Irene and tries to pretend that it doesn't matter,

 

Gregson calls to tell him that a body has been pulled from a river. He goes down to the morgue with a weary sense of inevitability.

Her face is bloated and bruised, pale and still. The river washed away the blood and did its best to erase her identity. Sherlock stares at her for a full minute, insides twisting. 

“This isn't her,” he says finally.

Gregson is at his shoulder. “Are you sure?”

“It's not Watson,” says Sherlock. “I don't think you'll find her in a river.”

 

Everyone knows that you can't just change your mind. Who would even want to when given their heart's desire? He removes Watson's things from the rooms he uses and does not answer the phone to her parents.

 

He dreams of a house on fire. Watson stands amid smoke and flames and _looks_ at him with betrayal in her eyes. 

“I'm so sorry,” he calls and she turns away, walks into the inferno. 

He wakes covered in sweat.

 

It's not _fair_. He's supposed to be happy, not going through hell (and he tries not to think that's what Watson might literally be doing). 

For the first time he really _looks_ at Irene. He thinks that her eyes are brighter than they should be, her hair a little less wavy. The conclusion is obvious. 

“Do you love me?” he asks.

She smiles. “Of course, Sherlock.”

He nods and makes a decision. “You didn't use to,” he says.

 

He doesn't say goodbye. He never got to say it last time and this time nothing is true. He waits alone, counting the seconds until there is a quiet scratching at the door.

She is thinner and paler. She sways on her feet and he catches her as she falls.

He carries her up the stairs to her bedroom. He pulls a blanket over her and says “Sorry” until the word becomes meaningless sound.

 

They sit on the roof with the bees. 

“I don't remember anything,” she says eventually, as though he is the one who should be comforted. Maybe she's worried that he'll suffer a relapse. 

“I have left illusions behind,” he tells her. “The drugs lied to me. I don't like being lied to.”

“Even if the lies make you feel good?”

“Especially if the lies make me feel good.”

They lapse back into silence. He notes, not for the first time, that it's a long way down.


End file.
